


The Last Forsworn

by JacobFlood



Series: The Gylhain-verse [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, Forsworn, Gen, POV Third Person, Revenge, The Reach - Freeform, rather closer third person than usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 02:18:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11819145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacobFlood/pseuds/JacobFlood
Summary: Deep within Cidhna Mine, vengeance burns hot in the heart of Joslyn Elbert. The Dragonborn has taken everything from her. Madanach might be dead, the Forsworn routed and dispersed, but hope will never die while Joslyn lives. The Forsworn cause will rise, and the Dragonborn will feel the pain of defeat before she meets her end.A sort-of prologue to the first arc ofOutcasts and Outlands, though it stands on its own.





	1. Cidhna Mine

News took a long time to filter down to Cidhna Mine. The year had almost turned before Joslyn Elbert heard that the Civil War had been brought to a crushing end. The Imperials had stormed Windhelm with all their heavy might. Blood had run through the streets and Ulfric had met his end. And of course, the leading figure in all the tales was the Dragonborn. Leading the charge, butchering Stormcloaks in the streets, lopping off Ulfric’s head.

Whichever of the multiple versions was closest to the truth, Joslyn seethed at the news. The Dragonborn, yet at large! _Still she stalks this land, cutting down any in her path,_ she thought, _yet to meet her judgement._ After what she’d done to the Forsworn, Joslyn was never going to treat her like the hero she was regarded as. Not after she pretended to be one of them only to murder Madanach and most of the others after their escape. Not after she’d slaughtered most of their number across the Reach. Not after she’d knocked Joslyn unconscious, abandoning her to languish in the mine while the others made their escape.

Joslyn didn’t know how many Forsworn remained. Remnants of a once-glorious tribe, destroyed by that hate-spewing Breton: the Dragonborn. Joslyn pictured the woman’s face and spat. The guards told her there were no Forsworn left, taunted her with tales of the Reach being returned to the Nords, old outposts claimed by common bandits and worse: Imperial Legionnaires. She hoped they were just taunts. Because if they were not, then she was the last true Forsworn.

* * *

 

Although Joslyn was the only remaining prisoner from the old days, there had been new additions to Cidhna Mine. A mix of common criminals and those with enemies in high places. _Weaklings and cowards,_ she sneered, _pathetic snivelling wretches. The Forsworn would never accept the likes of them._ Propped up against the rock wall of the Mine’s main cavern, she mentally catalogued them.

The newest was Shadbo gra-Magul, the scrawniest orc Joslyn had ever seen, and the only other female in the Mine. She’d been caught stealing ore from the blacksmith, coincidentally run by another female orc: Ghorza gra-Bagol. Shadbo might have been scrawny, but she mined more silver than any of the others, and could handle herself in a fight. She also swore more than any of the others put together.

Hodling was a big Nord, his hair and beard a shaggy brown, his knuckles covered in scabs, his face and body a permanent mass of sores and bruises. He’d been the first thrown into the Mine after Madanach’s escape, for murder. The others, Joslyn included, stayed away from him. He refused to mine ore, and was consequently beaten by the guards almost daily. It was unlikely he would ever see the light of day again.

Brandr was another Nord. _Too many Nords_ , thought Joslyn, _wallowing in their own filth, laying bastard claims to the lands of others._ Brandr had a nose that looked like it had been punched. In fact, Joslyn knew it to be broken, as she’d done it herself after he’d tried to lay hands on her. Next time, he was going to get a shiv in the gut.

Astien and Varnand were both of Reachman descent and, in Joslyn’s view, should have been committed members of the Forsworn. Instead, they kept mostly to themselves, trying to serve out their time as quickly and quietly as possible. An unlikely prospect, as they’d been turned in as Forsworn agents by someone high in the Jarl’s favour. Despite this, they had seemed unmoved by Joslyn’s talk of actually joining her righteous cause.

The last was Ibarna, a Dunmer member of the Thieves Guild, who’d been caught ransacking a noble’s house and then attacked the noble upon being discovered. Ibarna clearly hadn’t been planning on staying in the Mine long, but as the weeks dragged on and his release did not come, his cockiness began to erode. However, he was still the best source for skooma. Joslyn had no idea what he was bribing the guards with, but it was working.

All seven of them knew exactly how Madanach and the thrice-damned Dragonborn had escaped. A secret passage, near what had been the Forsworn leader’s private quarters, led into the Dwemer ruins under the city. But the barred door that led to that part of the Mine had been bolted shut, the way to the ruins blocked with a constructed rockfall. Even lingering too close to the door would bring the guards down to mete out a beating.

The guards were worse than ever. They had failed in their task; their most prized prisoners had escaped, and now they went overboard to make sure there would be no repeating of such an offence. But Joslyn never gave up hope. Trapped as she was, she still knew the Forsworn would never die, not while she lived.

* * *

 

There were no days or nights in Cidhna Mine. The torches always burned. The only way to tell time was when the guard shift changed. Joslyn had just finished stacking a load of silver ore when Ibarna approached her, sniffing nervously and flexing his hands. He’d been dipping into his own supply again.

“Hey,” he said. He reached out a hand towards her, then thought better of it. A shiver ran down his thin body, his grey skin shaking with tremors. “Brandr’s comin after you,” he said.

Joslyn shrugged. She was used to it. Used to living with one eye looking over her shoulder, used to dishing out violence at the slightest provocation.

“He’s got Hodling with ’im this time,” added Ibarna. That got Joslyn’s attention. Brandr, she could handle, but Hodling, despite his regular beatings, was a formidable opponent. She wasn’t sure she could take both of them at once. This would be, of course, what they would count on. _Both Nords_ , she thought. _They’ll get what’s coming to them. I’ll get to them before they get to me._ She stopped, and had a better idea. There were ways to use to constraints of the mine in her favour.

“I’ll handle it,” she said. She left Ibarna alone with his drug habit and found a spot against the wall in the main cavern, in direct line of sight of the guard on duty. A blonde Nord brute with a knotted beard, overblown with importance. His Silver-Blood-issued armour shone in the torchlight. _Usurping scum._ But she’d make good use of him before his shift was through.

She closed her left fist around the handle of a pickaxe and sat down. She kept her right hand pressed against the side of her body and worked down the shiv she kept up her sleeve. She smiled wide up at the guard; he did not return it.

She sat and waited. Sleep was a rare commodity in Cidhna Mine. Joslyn did not sleep often or well, but then neither did any of the prisoners. To sleep was to leave oneself open, to make oneself vulnerable.

But Brandr and Hodling did not come. Neither of the Nords made an appearance in the main cavern all through the current watch. The other prisoners moved back and forth, engaged in routines of their own devising, trying to stay sane. And failing, mostly. Against her own volition, Joslyn fell into a doze.

* * *

 

When she awoke she found the visage of Brandr only a few inches away from hers. _Shit._ Behind and above was Hodling, grinning with broken and missing teeth. _Fuck._ She fumbled for her pickaxe and tried to get a grip on her shiv. The pair leered in anticipation. A shout came from the guard platform, a voice that Joslyn recognised as Urzoga gra-Shugurz, the captain of the Mine’s guards.

“Joslyn!” yelled Urzoga. Brandr and Hodling jerked away, quick to show they had not been up to any wrongdoing. Joslyn sneered at them as she eased onto her feet, meeting the orc captain’s eyes. “You’re in luck,” continued Urzoga. “Your sentence just ended!”

Joslyn’s sneer turned into a grin. _Finally!_ To be able to walk the Reach as a free woman, to be able to return to work of the Forsworn; this was a feeling better than any hit of skooma. Urzoga lowered the ladder down, allowing Joslyn to climb up towards her freedom. The other prisoners gathered: Brandr and Hodling still trying to look innocent, Ibarna sniffing and patting his pockets. Astien and Varnand, _the traitors_ , frowning and muttering to each other. Shadbo, glancing rapidly around, trying to assess the new balance of power.

“Don’t think this is the last you’ll see of me,” spat Joslyn, pleased with the new height she had over them. “All who have wronged me will be brought low, all who have—”

She was cut off by Urzoga grabbing the back of her neck and turning her around. “Come on,” growled the orc. “Jarl wants you out of town as soon as possible.”

_Fine. All the better._ Joslyn gave in to the orc’s shoving and allowed herself to be led up and out of the mine. _When I return, this mine will run slick with blood._


	2. Treachery and Hope

Urzoga bundled Joslyn out of Markarth herself. The hour was late, Masser and Secunda lighting their path through the city of stone. Nobody was about. Joslyn was sure her release had been planned that way. _A smart move. There’s no knowing what I’d do let loose in this city,_ she thought.

When they reached the dwarven doors that marked the exit, Urzoga eased them open and stepped back to allow Joslyn through. The ex-prisoner looked back at the guard.

“What about my things?” she asked. Her clothes, her toothed axe, her alchemy ingredients. All taken when she’d been thrown in Cidhna Mine.

Urzoga snorted. “Don’t push it,” she said. “Get goin. Any guard here sees your filthy face again they’ll smash it open.” She leaned closer. “I’d be happy to do the job myself right now, but the High Queen’s puttin pressure on the Jarl, makin us treat our prisoners like they’re people. Count yourself lucky.” She shoved Joslyn through the gap in the doors.

Outside the city, Joslyn squinted around. She knew not how long it had been since she’d had a glimpse of the outside world. The town guards on duty said nothing to her, but she could tell they were looking her up and down. She sneered in their direction, pulled the ragged prison-issue robes she wore tighter around her, and set off into the Reach.

She followed the path down the hill, between Left-Hand Mine and Salvius Farm, coming down to the bridge, the path splitting in two directions. One: across the bridge and east. Two: along the river and north. But Joslyn’s decision-making process was cut short, as three Markarth guards stood clustered at the junction.

At her approach, they stopped their conversation and spread into a line, drawing their swords. _A trap._

“Such a shame,” said the first, shaking his head dramatically.

“To survive the horrors of Cidhna Mine,” continued the second.

“Only to be killed in an escape attempt,” finished the third.

Joslyn looked from one of them to the next, analysing her options. An unarmed Forsworn in rags against three armed and armoured guards. _Not the best odds in the world, but when have the Forsworn ever given a damn for the odds?_

“What are you three?” she asked them. “A fucking performing trio?”

The guards looked at each other, perhaps realising the overdramatic nature of their spiel.

“Can a girl get a last request?” Joslyn asked. At least one of the guards chuckled in a lewd fashion. “What’s the date?”

“Two hundred and four, fourth era,” said the first guard. Joslyn inhaled between her teeth. _Three years!_ Three years since the Dragonborn had left her for dead and escaped with the others. Three years since the Forsworn had suffered their greatest defeat. _Three years of blood to catch up on._

“Nineteenth of Sun’s Dusk,” added the second guard.

“What?” said the third guard. “Twentieth.”

“It can’t be the twentieth,” said the second guard, “we haven’t had the Warriors Festival yet.”

“It’s well after midnight,” said the first guard. “It’s the twentieth.”

When they turned back to Joslyn, she was already gone. _Pack of fools, the lot of them._ She used their moment of argument to sprint to her right and crash into the water. She stretched herself into the shape of an arrow and shot across the river, emerging on the other side to see the three guards racing across the bridge towards her, cursing at the tops of their voices.

She rejoined the road and broke into a loping run, her short light-brown hair bobbing up and down. She could feel her ragged boots showing signs of their poor manufacture. The seams, always held together by luck more than anything else, were heartbeats away from splitting. _What I wouldn’t do for a pair of those guards’ fur boots._ She smiled as she ran. Maybe there was something she could do about that.

She kept running and the guards kept cursing as they followed. Ahead on her right was a small dirt path diverging off from the road. She knew where it led. _Nobody knows the Reach like the Forsworn do._ Followed to its natural end the path would lead across a bridge and to the orcish fortress of Dushnikh Yal. But Joslyn had other plans.

She nimbly turned the corner down onto the path, the curses and heavy breathing from the guards behind her growing louder. Her one advantage was movement; with their armour, the guards would be slowed down considerably. Almost as soon as she turned the corner, she moved right again, ducking behind a jutting wall of rock. _Oldest trick in the book._

She found exactly what she needed: a thick branch almost as tall as she was. She didn’t have to wait very long to use it. The first guard came panting past in a matter of seconds, the second almost scraping on the first’s heels. No peripheral vision in those helmets, Joslyn knew. Luckily for her, the third came after a short gap. She reared up behind him and smashed the branch into his right arm. He went down, crying out and dropping his sword. Joslyn scrambled for it, knowing she had mere seconds before the other guards turned and came back.

The hilt felt good in her hands. Too long since she’d held a proper weapon. Even if it was low-grade steel and spotted with rust. _Time to end this._ She buried the blade in the guard’s chest. She looked up and saw the other two racing back down the path towards her. As they approached, they slowed, stepping away from each other so as to come at her from a wider angle.

 _Cowardly guards, always with their cautious approach._ She sprang forward at the guard on the left, feinting at his shield then slicing from the left and hacking into his right arm. He yelled and dropped his sword. She leapt away, knowing the second guard would be coming at her. She wasn’t fast enough. His sword bit into her unprotected side and she roared. She swung wide and wildly, burying her sword into the second guard’s neck. She let go of the hilt and wrenched the sword from her side. She advanced on the only remaining guard, his shield raised, cradling his wounded arm.

“What a pathetic plan,” she told him, growling through the pain in her side. “You should’ve left me to rot in the mine.”

She advanced on him and smashed the sword, stained with her own blood, into his shield, creating a huge dent. She repeated the action, forcing him back. “Now none of you are safe,” she said. She delivered a blow so powerful it knocked him to the ground. On falling he lowered his shield just a little. It was enough. Joslyn’s sword found his throat. _Finally._

She dropped the sword as soon as the guard breathed his last. She peeled aside the sticky robes to get a good look. _Hurts like a stampeding mammoth, but nothing that can’t be patched up._ She moved as fast as she was able, which wasn’t very.

Joslyn pulled off her own ragged boots and tested the fur boots of the guards. The first pair was too big for her, but the second, she decided, would be good enough. The fur gauntlets were quicker; the first pair fitter her. She then had a decision to make. To face the harsh climate of the Reach with just her ragged robes, or to don the armour of those who had imprisoned her and attempted to kill her.

The night wind whistled down the path and Joslyn made her decision. She tore off her robe and used it as a makeshift bandage for her wound. Then, she stripped one of the guards and fumbled into his armour, gritting her teeth all the while. She left the helmet and set off for the nearest old Forsworn hideout: Hag Rock Redoubt.

In its day it had been the largest and most impenetrable of all the camps the Forsworn used to claim as their own. As she stumbled on, Joslyn tried not to think of what the guards had said about there being no Forsworn left. _They’ll be there. We can rebuild._

* * *

 

There was a single light up in the Redoubt as she approached. Once, the place had blazed with campfires and Forsworn had swarmed among the tents. Joslyn kept a grip on the guard’s sword and advanced, refusing to consider dealing with regular bandits.

Bones picked clean by scavenged animals littered the lower areas of the camp. Tents had collapsed under weight of rain and snow. She picked her way through the remnants in the moonlight, heading for the light. When she was close enough to make out the shadows of several figures, she stumbled on an old bone. She could not hold back a yelp of pain as she fell.

There was the sound of many running feet, of weapons being raised and orders being given. Joslyn blinked through the pain and tried to make out the figures around her. Their armour made her grin. A huge shirtless orc stood before her, his arms crossed below a necklace of bones. Only one Forsworn fit that description; the Dragonborn had not been as thorough in her genocide as she’d thought.

“Get her inside,” said Borkul the Beast.


	3. Hag Rock

Borkul refused to answer Joslyn’s first question when she came round: how had he escaped the wrath of the Dragonborn? He muttered something about luck and left the tent. _He stinks of cowardice._

She propped herself up on her left elbow and examined her surrounds. The inside of the tent was bare, only a single bedroll, an open chest with a few alchemical supplies, and an alchemy table. Sitting cross-legged on the floor was a wiry dark-haired woman mixing something in a bowl. A longbow and half-empty quiver lay next to her. Pale light came through the tent opening.

“How many of us are there?” asked Joslyn.

“Six, now that you’re here,” said the woman. She handed over the bowl. “Drink this.”

Joslyn did, and felt the warmth spread through her. The pain in her side was already lessened. She poked at it and found a thick bandage, soaked in something that smelt like Namira’s Rot. Effective, but unpleasant; this woman knew her alchemy.

“What’s your name?”

“Muriena,” said the woman. There was a thin scar on the left side of her chin and her dull grey eyes darted away from Joslyn’s. “I’ve heard of you,” she said. “In the mine for so long . . . it must’ve been awful for you.”

 _The Mine might as well be its own plane of Oblivion._ But Joslyn would never voice such a thought. She admired Muriena’s rough shoulders and the way her toes twitched when she spoke.

“You get used to it,” she said, trying to shrug in her reclined position. “But this is where I belong.”

“Wait a moment,” said Muriena with a smile. She rose and exited the tent. A minute later she returned with an armful of what Joslyn recognised as Forsworn armour. Muriena deposited it into a neat pile. “Thought you’d want to be back in these soon as possible.”

“You thought right,” said Joslyn with a satisfied grin. Unabashedly she pulled off the guard’s armour and replaced it with the leather, fur, and bone that made up the Forsworn’s uniform. Muriena did not look away. Joslyn was dirty and thin from her years of work and underfeeding in the Mine, but there was still clearly an intrinsic ferocity that the guards had been unable to beat out of her.

“Why are there so few here?” asked Joslyn. “What’s Borkul been doing?”

Muriena looked over her shoulder out the tent opening before answering. “Not much,” she said. “We raid travellers occasionally, but don’t go far out. Slim pickings. Haven’t seen any other Forsworn in months. And there are Legion soldiers to deal with. Other bandits are moving in, too.”

 _All because the Dragonborn’s massacres left a vacancy in the Reach._ But plans were already beginning to form in Joslyn’s mind. There had to be other pockets of Forsworn scattered through the Reach. Survivors of the various attacks they had suffered, others remote enough to have been passed over. Together, they could be a force to be reckoned with again. Together, they could get their revenge.

“Who are the others?” she asked. “Skilled?”

Muriena counted them off on her fingers. “Borkul you’ve met. Me, obviously. This bow ain’t just for decoration. Uthal and Hanna. Brother and sister. Good enough with a blade, both of ’em, but they’re more concerned with fucking than fighting.”

“Each other?” asked Joslyn. She spat.

“Well I sure as hell ain’t letting them touch me,” said Muriena, grinning. It abruptly vanished. “And then there’s Djanson.”

Joslyn knew that name from when she used to roam free with the hordes. “He’s still alive?” she asked, trying to restrain her incredulity.

“Aye,” said Muriena. “More’s the shame. Worships Borkul.”

“Used to worship Madanach,” said Joslyn. She remembered Djanson. Wide-eyed and fervent, the most committed Forsworn she’d ever heard of. So committed that it blinded him, taking the words of Madanach as though they had been handed down by a god.

“And now Borkul’s his only connection to Madanach,” said Muriena. She crossed her arms and looked Joslyn up and down. “Though you might shake up his world just a little.”

Joslyn stretched her arms above her head. Djanson was a loose cannon, but she needed ferocity like that, as long as she could direct it. The more immediate problem was Borkul. His short-sightedness was never going to get them back to the old glory days. More importantly, it would never bring Joslyn closer to her vengeance.

“There any fresh meat?” she asked.

Muriena nodded. “Skeever, I think. Hunting ain’t been good lately.”

Joslyn forced her laugh to sound as natural as possible. A whole new world to deal with after so long in an old one. But as before, showing fear was always the costliest of mistakes.

“Better’n the slop we got in the mine,” she said.

Muriena led Joslyn outside into the morning air. A fire burned unattended. Further up the hill, the sound of woodchopping could be heard. Grunting and moaning came from another tent. Muriena passed over a chunk of almost-burnt skeever meat and Joslyn tore into it like there was nothing wrong with it. She needed the strength but could not show just how weak she was feeling. The fight against the guards had left her hazy-headed, running on adrenaline and fury. She suspected passing out last night was the first time she’d slept properly in months, if not years.

Soon enough, Djanson appeared, carrying an armful of wood.

“Remember me, Djanson?” asked Joslyn. She spat a piece of gristle into the fire and stood with her legs firmly planted. The man’s eyes were thickly bloodshot and his short stocky frame trembled as he put down his wood.

“I remember nothing,” he said. “There is no room in my skull but for the word of Madanach.”

“Madanach’s dead,” said Joslyn. She heard Muriena make an intake of breath and wished for the safety of an axe in hand.

“But his words speak through the Beast,” said Djanson. “His dreams will never die.”

“Well, at least we can agree on half of something,” said Joslyn. “Go and get this Beast of yours, huh? We got some changes to make round here.”

“Do not disrespect the Beast,” said Djanson. “Through him speak the—”

“Words of Madanach, I know,” said Joslyn. “Plenty of people knew Madanach.” She tore off the last edible section of skeever meet and waited for the inevitable reply. Djanson’s eyes narrowed.

“Did _you_ know Madanach?” he asked.

“Damn right I did,” said Joslyn. In truth, she had known Madanach only vaguely before she’d been thrown in Cidhna Mine. From then on, she’d had little to do with the Forsworn’s leader after an introductory interview. More often than not, his orders had come through Borkul. _But there’s no way Djanson could know any of that. And it’s only a matter of time before Borkul’s cowardly stench starts showing on his face._

Djanson looked at her with a new expression, perhaps close to confusion. Then he vanished deeper into the camp.

“That world-shaking enough for you?” asked Joslyn.

Muriena smirked. “You rattled him a little,” she said, “but anyone can manage that if they’ve a mind to. It’s gonna take more than sayin you knew Madanach to break his link to Borkul.”

Joslyn grunted in what she hoped was an uncaring fashion. _Borkul will meet his end one way or another._ When Djanson returned, Borkul was following, a frown dominating his face.

“What do you want, Joslyn?” he asked. “Things don’t change around here unless I order ’em to. Then they get to it, ’less they want to feel what it’s like to be missing a windpipe.”

Joslyn had foolishly brawled with Borkul in Cidhna Mine. Once. He was stronger, but she was faster. _I can take him. I can introduce his brains to the sunlight. I can let the dirt of the Reach grow strong with his rotting corpse._ But not yet, she was still too weak. For now, she would have to work around him.

“Might as well get Uthal and Hanna out,” she said. “What I got to say affects all of us.”

Borkul looked for a long moment as if he was going to refuse, or perhaps lunge at her with a clenched fist, but eventually he gestured at Djanson. The little short-haired man whined, but Borkul made the gesture again, more forcibly. Djanson trod to the tent the grunting and moaning was coming from and lifted the tent-flap.

There was murmured conversation, then a male and female figure emerged from the tent, each in a state of undress. Their hair was thickly matted with mud and they were both missing several teeth. They wore expressions of deep annoyance.

“This better be good, Borkul,” said Hanna. Borkul just pointed at Joslyn, who coughed and spat.

“Look at you,” said Joslyn. “This ain’t no way for Forsworn to live. We should be striking fear into the hearts of everyone in the Reach, ’stead of cowering in the corners. We should be living like queens, ’stead of foraging for scraps. We should be dozens, hundreds, ’stead of a handful.”

“And where do you think you’ll find a hundred Forsworn?” asked Borkul. “For all you know, we could be the last.”

“And you’ll never know otherwise unless you look!” Joslyn exclaimed. Borkul just grunted, so she continued. “Here: you stay, I’ll go. I find anyone, I’ll send them back here. Soon enough there’ll be an army, you’ll see.”

“And if there isn’t?” asked Borkul.

 _Then I’ll go after the Dragonborn myself._ “Then we’ll do things your way.”

There would be an army, she knew. The cause was glorious and just. Sympathetic and disillusioned, she would find them. Scattered among their old hideouts, just waiting for someone to lead them.

“I’m coming with you,” said Muriena. There was no haste in the woman’s tone, but Joslyn found herself grinning.

“I’ll be back,” she said. “And there’ll be a horde before me.”


	4. Rebirth in the Reach

Joslyn flagged their first destination as Lost Valley Redoubt, an immense ruin to the east that had once been home to dozens of Forsworn. She and Muriena made a careful journey. They stayed off the roads and Joslyn forced Muriena into training every night. She masked it as practice, but in truth it had been so long since she’d held an axe, she was worried her skills had evaporated. But their first sparring proved otherwise; Joslyn was rusty, but still as ferocious as ever.

She took them on a steep, alternative way to Lost Valley. They scrambled up and over rocks to reach Cradle Stone Tower. A small tower and, as it turned out, an empty one. Joslyn remembered when it had been a twisted lair for hagravens, and mentioned as much to Muriena.

“Nobody’s seen any of ’em in a long while,” said Muriena. The woman always had her bow strung, and was as comfortable in the wilds as anyone Joslyn had met. “Borkul thinks they’re all dead.”

 _The Dragonborn was nothing if not thorough._ But Joslyn had to keep that concern to herself. Even here, alone in the Reach with Muriena, she still felt the need for a performance. Despite the woman’s desire to accompany her, Joslyn was unsure of her motives.

“If there are any, we’ll find them,” she said. They headed across to Bard’s Leap Summit, the peak above the Redoubt. It was deserted, the only occupants bones and a pair of wolves that slinked away when the Forsworn approached. Joslyn walked carefully out onto the stone bridge that extended over the waterfall. Leaning out over the huge drop, she double-checked behind her to make sure Muriena wasn’t close enough to push her off. _Can’t trust anyone._

Her view of Lost Valley Redoubt was clear. It was also clear of any Forsworn. Their old animal skulls and totems had been torn down. It was obvious even from such a height that the Redoubt had been occupied by a large gang of bandits. Joslyn spat off the platform, the projectile arcing and falling, lost in the churning water at the base of the falls.

She turned back. “Too many,” she said.

“What, we’re not going to kick them out on our own?” asked Muriena with a smirk.

Joslyn shook her head. “We’ll be back later. All the old Forsworn places will be returned to us. Come on.”

 _Not good enough._ But it would have to do for now. She was glad there were no more followers around to disappoint. However, when they turned to descend back the way they had come, Muriena spotted smoke up to the south-west.

It was another difficult climb, and more than once the pair was forced to go back and find an alternate route. But when they reached the small flat area at the top it was a Forsworn sword that Joslyn deflected from its strike at her head. She looked around. Five, hunched around a pitiful fire, wounded and dejected. Most of them without weapons.

 _Weak and cowardly. But they contain potential._ No doubt these were the survivors from the Redoubt below, forcibly removed when the bandits had taken up residence. They looked at Joslyn and Muriena with something approaching shock.

“Fellow Forsworn,” Joslyn addressed them. “You are reborn. An army gathers at Hag Rock Redoubt, and with it your hopes for the Reach. Travel there, and meet with Borkul the Beast. He will form you into the instruments of destruction you were always meant to be.”

“Borkul?” mumbled one of the Forsworn. “I heard the Dragonborn killed him.”

Joslyn restrained a hiss. _If only._ “Just get to Hag Rock,” she ordered them. There must have been something in her tone, for they kicked dirt over the fire and set about gathering their meagre supplies. Muriena tended to the worst of their wounds, and the pair accompanied them for a short while west.

Joslyn was unable to keep from grinning as she watched the group move off. In one stroke she had doubled the Forsworn’s strength. _So it begins._

* * *

Satisfied with her display of leadership, Joslyn turned north. Muriena was regarding her quietly, and spoke little during their cold evening camps. They left Fort Sungard well alone; it had been claimed by the Imperial Legion during the Civil War. They went on, to Serpent’s Bluff Redoubt. Arriving in the early hours of the morning, they discovered the exterior of the camp to be a smouldered ruin, long ago razed to the ground. _Another victim of the Dragonborn._

They descended into the ruins, Joslyn with torch in one hand and axe in the other, Muriena with bow drawn. They searched the dank rooms methodically. In a storeroom next to the main hall, huddled in a gap between a broken shelf and the stone wall, was a small woman. They almost passed the whole room by, but Joslyn heard muffled breathing.

The woman’s eyes clenched tight upon seeing them. Small, black eyes sunk in a dirty face, framed by wild blonde hair. Dressed in scraps of their armour.

“You’re dead,” she murmured. “You’re all supposed to be dead.”

Joslyn signalled to Muriena to lower her bow. She edged towards the woman and returned her axe to her belt to show she meant no harm. The woman shifted and Joslyn got a look at her chest. There was a hole, red scars standing out against pale skin. _Briarheart._ Better than Joslyn could ever have hoped for.

“Not dead,” said Joslyn. “The Forsworn are returning.”

“Not dead?” asked the woman. She scrambled to her bare feet, blinking furiously at the new light. “It’s been so long . . . I thought the cause was lost.”

Joslyn allowed herself a smile in sight of others. “Not lost,” she said. “We’re back.”

* * *

 

Outside Serpent’s Bluff, leaving the Briarheart frowning up at the sun, Muriena took Joslyn aside.

“Nobody’s seen a Briarheart in a long time,” she murmured. “You’re just gonna let her trot off back to Hag Rock?”

One side of Joslyn’s mouth curved into a smile. “Muriena,” she said. “You wouldn’t be suggesting we keep our new friend hidden from Borkul, would you?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” said Muriena.

Joslyn dropped the half-smile and grabbed at Muriena’s collarbone. “Don’t say this lightly,” she said. “Will you support me against Borkul?”

“Of course,” said Muriena. “You think I’d let that skunk lead the Forsworn? He only joined up so he could get a shortcut to some killing.”

Joslyn nodded. _Finally, an ally._ And perhaps a second one. She turned towards the Briarheart. Her name, they discovered through much circuitous prodding as they moved on, was Briette. It seemed she’d been in the ruins since the Dragonborn had purged the place, living off skeevers and worse, sometimes heading across to steal from the people of Rorikstead. Her preferred magic was fire, in large quantities. Joslyn had to restrain her several times from attracting attention to their position as they travelled.

Not the sanest Forsworn she’d ever met, but certainly not the opposite either. Their cause had always attracted those on the fringes. Still, Joslyn was glad to have magic on her side, even if it was potentially destructively unreliable. She knew all she had to do was point Briette in the right direction, then sit back and watch the flames rise.

* * *

 

Joslyn made a note of the Old Hroldan Inn as an easy target. Further north, they discovered another pocket of Forsworn in Bleakwind Bluff and sent them back to Hag Rock. Red Eagle Redoubt and the Sundered Towers, however, were empty. Only a single troll crept among the ruins, which Briette incinerated with a fireball.

They gave the Karthspire a wide berth. Muriena told them it had been overtaken by the Blades, their numbers greatly expanding. But at Four Skull Lookout there was a trio of Forsworn fighters who almost took Joslyn’s head off when she entered without warning. She had to beat each of them into submission to get them to follow her, but when they did, she knew they would follow her into any fire she could find. No question, then, of giving them up to Borkul. Emmard, Mathane, and Sabsa were their names, and Joslyn found herself quickly categorising them as her ‘elites’ in her mind.

She felt the need for a true fight. _The smell of blood in the air and the taste of death._ None of them expected any luck at Broken Tower Redoubt. Of all the old Forsworn hideouts, they all reasoned it was the most likely to have been overrun with bandits, due to its proximity to a main road. They were right, but Joslyn would not suffer another defeat.

She knew the bandits would be watching the road, so the Forsworn came at them from over the mountain, climbing the rocky crags. None of her band complained about the arduous ascent, to her deep pleasure. Twice she reached out to pull Muriena up, relishing both her restoring strength and the feel of the other woman’s calloused hand in her own.

Instead of the traditional Forsworn rush, Joslyn made her followers hang back on the peak. _The future of the Forsworn will be no different to our past if we do not change our tactics._ They peppered the bandits with arrows and fire until all came to them. With the high-ground advantage and the doors as readymade chokepoints, it wasn’t long before the bandit chief fell before them, even though they numbered only six.

Briette’s magicka reserves were not deep, but her spells were potent while they lasted; huge waving walls of flame that encircled enemies, zooming projectiles that exploded into infernos on impact. Her magic was raw and untrained, just how Joslyn liked it.

They walked through the fort afterwards, restoring old Forsworn icons to their rightful places. But Joslyn knew they didn’t have the numbers to hold it, and so continued on.

* * *

 

At Dragon Bridge Overlook their luck held again. It was night when they approached and they’d seen the light of a single fire from a long distance away. It had never been a very large camp, but it had been reduced to a single tent with a single occupant.

That occupant was naked from the waist up, and his muscles bulged. A rippling burn scar blasted his right side. He unfolded himself and rose as they approached, grasping a makeshift mace in his huge hand. He was moving fluidly into a battle-stance when he noticed their armour. A wide grin emerged from his dark red beard.

“Knew some would keep the faith,” he boomed, his voice deep and echoing. “Name’s Gerrick.” He lowered his mace and extended his hand to Joslyn, who was pleased that he picked her out as the leader. They shook, Joslyn pushing back against Gerrick’s crushing grip.

“Are there others?” asked Joslyn. _Don’t sound too eager, you fool. You could take the Reach on your own if you had to._

Gerrick’s expression darkened. “Aye,” he said. “Cravens. You don’t want nothing to do with them.”

Joslyn angled her neck and looked him dead in the eyes. _I am not weak. I am not weak._ “If we’re going to retake the Reach,” she said. “We’ll need all the help we can get.”

Gerrick just grunted.

“Where are these cravens you speak of?” pushed Joslyn.

Gerrick spat. “Over the river,” he said. “In Bruca’s Leap Redoubt.” He scratched his beard. “I will follow you,” he added, “but do not be surprised if they will not do you the same honour.”

Joslyn turned away, positioning in her mind the location of Bruca’s Leap. She didn’t ask Gerrick how many. _Numbers are no matter. They will do me whatever honour I please._

* * *

 

The now seven-strong group made the river crossing to Bruca’s Leap that night. Gerrick filled them in on the way. Somehow, it had been a cave the Dragonborn had not discovered. Or perhaps one that she’d purged and moved on from. Either way, a group of Forsworn had fled there, keeping to themselves, only venturing out to gather food. They were led by a man called Dreanan, who Gerrick could not mention without spitting.

“The Dragonborn has much to answer for,” said Joslyn.

“Aye,” said Gerrick. “She’ll taste my mace soon enough.”

Joslyn spun, axe in hand, and levelled the blade a hair’s breadth from Gerrick’s face.

“The Dragonborn will pay,” she hissed, “for what she has done to our people. But when the time comes . . . the kill is mine. Understood?”

A grin spread across Gerrick’s face. “Understood,” he said.

They entered the small cave with Gerrick and one of the warriors carrying torches, and startled the inhabitants into waking. The space seemed to be made even smaller by Gerrick’s bulk. The sleepers arose with shouts of surprise, Joslyn counting them as they did. _Five, six, nine, ten. The Forsworn live!_

The wakened men and women scrambled for weapons, halting when they saw how their wakers were garbed. Joslyn decided she had to have the first word.

“You useless bastards didn’t even post a watch?” she asked them. The ten looked sheepishly at each other, everyone wanting someone else to talk. Eventually, a skinny man with a missing left hand did. The look of disgust on Gerrick’s face told her that this was Dreanan. _A miserable excuse for a leader if there ever was one._

“Nobody bothers us here,” he said, sniffing heavily. “We keep to ourselves, stay out of trouble, and stay alive.” The other cave-dwellers nodded, pale and thin, though some were unable to shift their gaze from the weapons of Joslyn and her followers.

Joslyn saw immediately what she would have to do. _Fear is vital. I must be feared and respected by my own before the rest of the Reach will follow._ She stepped casually forward, drawing her axe and burying it in Dreanan’s head. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Briette putting a spell on hold and Muriena putting an arrow to her bow. The cave-dwellers jumped away from Dreanan to avoid the spray of blood, cringing from Joslyn’s violence.

“Now,” she announced, seeing a smile on Gerrick’s face, “the Forsworn are returned. You’re either with me, or”—she gestured at Dreanan’s body in its growing pool of blood—“you’re with him.”

* * *

 

She dispatched one of her elites, Emmard, to lead the cravens back to Hag Rock. It left her with only six, but they could move all the faster for it to their last few destinations. Joslyn held a quiet word with Emmard before he left, tasking him with sowing disdain and dissatisfaction with Borkul among the growing troops. When Joslyn returned, she would need all the allies she could get.

She addressed the cravens—as she was internally referring to them—before they left.

“Do any of you know of other Forsworn still living?”

There was a round of head-shaking. _Useless bastards. Fine._ They would head north then, to Deepwood Redoubt and Hag’s End. Maybe there, given its heritage, she would find the hagravens she’d been looking for. For that was their last resort. Kolskeggr Mine, Muriena informed her, had been taken over by the Silver-Bloods, and Blind Cliff Cave, Gerrick added, had fallen to Falmer. If there were any more Forsworn left, they’d be at Hag’s End.


	5. Old Hroldan

The trip to Deepwood Redoubt was a short, if circuitous one. The south route, across the mountain, was too steep for even Joslyn to consider, so they looped west and east to come at the Nordic ruins from the north. In the past it had been as glorious as Hag Rock or Lost Valley, thronging with Forsworn and hagravens, raining terror down on all the residents of the Reach nearby.

Joslyn led her gang up through the ruins and found them, at first, empty. She tried not to jump at the slightest noise, tried to let her body relax. But she felt that the whole Reach thrummed with tension—all it would take was an extra little piece of force to make it snap forth. She, of course, intended to provide that force.

Muriena kept close by her side and for this Joslyn was thankful. Briette too, seemed loyal, as did the warriors Mathane and Sabsa. They obeyed her terse instructions without objection, scouring the ruins methodically and carefully. But Gerrick was not so compliant.

“This is not the Forsworn way,” he said, frowning.

“We are the Forsworn,” said Joslyn. “Any way we follow is the Forsworn way.”

He crossed his arms as they stood in an empty corridor in a ruin of empty corridors. “The Forsworn care not for planning,” he said. “We win through the strength of our might.”

“We tried that,” said Joslyn. “And it got almost all of us killed. Now we do things my way.”

Gerrick grunted, but made no further complaints. Deeper into Hag Rock, Joslyn tried not to show her disappointed face to her followers. But crouched over a bloody table in what, from memory, was the final room, were two hagravens. Their feathers were ragged and their features drawn, but their claws were still sharp and their movements swift. Both let out little screeches at the group’s entry.

“The Forsworn!” said one.

“We knew you were not dead,” said the other.

“We knew you would come,” said one.

“We knew a leader would rise,” said the other.

“And now here I am,” said Joslyn. She gauged the reactions of the others. Muriena was watching her closely. Briette was peering off at an arcane enchanter in the corner. Mathane and Sabsa were not surprised, but Gerrick raised his voice.

“I thought you said Borkul was in charge,” he said.

“He is,” said Joslyn. “For now.” She looked at the hagravens. “I have a plan, and your skills would be most appreciated.”

“They are not to be ordered about!” exclaimed Gerrick. “They are to be respected and honoured.”

“Silence,” said one hagraven.

“Our plans align,” said the other. “You seek vengeance.”

“On the Dragonborn,” said Joslyn. “Yes. You will aid us?”

“Lure her to Druadach,” said one.

“Get her inside,” said the other. “And when she comes out . . .”

“A trap,” said Joslyn. As for getting the Dragonborn there, she’d already had a few ideas. Druadach Redoubt was the only place for it. The place where she’d slaughtered Madanach after their escape. The place where the Forsworn had lost their greatest leader. _Until now. Until the Dragonborn’s blood runs into the dirt and our rule begins in earnest._

* * *

 

The hagravens promised to meet Joslyn at Druadach, when she returned with the full Forsworn army in tow. But first she needed a way to bind Gerrick to her, to secure the loyalties of the others. The vote of the hagravens would do much for her, especially once she returned to contest Borkul, but a true victory would be even better. So far, their journey had been far too bloodless.

Joslyn stretched her mind out over the Reach. One defenceless locale stood out, free from Markarth guards, Imperial soldiers, and bandits. Old Hroldan Inn. _A morale boost waiting to happen._

* * *

 

The sun was almost at its zenith when the Forsworn reached the Old Hroldan Inn. Joslyn crouched at the top of the hill to the north and observed the small building for a time. Muriena crept up next to her and whispered close to her ear. Joslyn felt a shiver ripple down her body at the soft sound.

“What exactly is there that we want in Old Hroldan?” she asked.

“A victory,” Joslyn managed to say.

“So what was Broken Tower?” asked Muriena.

“Practice,” spat Joslyn. “Bandits are butchered all the time. By guards, soldiers, adventurers. But an attack like this . . . this spreads fear. Shows the Reach that we’re back.”

Muriena nodded. “And the booze,” she said.

Joslyn grinned. “Fuck yes,” she said. “D’you know how many years it’s been since I had a drink?” She fell silent and ducked down as a lone man emerged from the inn. He moved to the right and began to chop wood. He had not seen them.

“Can you hit him from here?” asked Joslyn.

Muriena put an arrow to her bow without answering. She rose, stretched her arm back—Joslyn admired the angle—and loosed. The arrow found itself jutting from the man’s back. He collapsed forwards onto the chopping block. He thrashed his arms and struggled to rise. Muriena sent another arrow, close to his neck. The man turned over onto his back and saw them. Joslyn felt herself grinning as the man’s eyes went wide. _Yes. The Forsworn have returned. And your lives will never be the same._

He died, and Joslyn signalled the advance. Weapons drawn, the Forsworn descended on the Old Hroldan Inn. She had given orders for silence; something anathema to their traditional approach. To charge in blades twirling, yelling curses at the Nords. Joslyn knew that here, that approach could get them killed.

And their silence was successful: none came out to face them as they approached. Briette began weaving a fireball between her hands. Joslyn waved at Gerrick, who trod up to the door, kicked it open, then jumped to the side without entering. Briette loosed her fireball through the gap.

Yells and a high-pitched scream came from within. Joslyn pointed her axe towards the doorway. The moment to strike was now, when those inside were at their most confused. The Forsworn charged. Gerrick was first inside and took and arrow in his left shoulder. Joslyn deliberately slowed as she went up the stairs, letting Mathane and Sabsa overtake her.

Once inside, it became clear that the fireball had only done half the work. A small child and a member of the Blades lay dead, broken and burned. Joslyn had hoped there would be no trouble from the dragonhunters, but this was the closest inn to their base, it was only natural that they frequent it.

Gerrick was hacking at the hunter who’d loosed the arrow into his shoulder. Mathane hurdled the bar and went for the bartender. Sabsa cornered a travelling bard. That left the last Blade for Joslyn.

He was a huge Redguard, edging away from the rising flames. Her axe clattered harmlessly off his round steel shield. But his movements were hazy, and Joslyn realised he was drunk. She swung both her weapons at him and he flinched back, into the fire. Dancing away from the heat, he found only her axe and her sword waiting for him. Soon he was lying in blood like the others.

Joslyn looked around the inn. _Not a single casualty!_ Gerrick had taken a cut to his side and Mathane’s cheek was swiftly dripping blood, but these were things Muriena could patch up in mere moments. And seven corpses, inside the inn and out. With the force growing at Hag Rock, there were no limits to the chaos Joslyn imagined they could sow across the Reach.

The fire was spreading a little too quickly for her liking, however.

“Can you put this out?” she asked Briette. The Briarheart shook her head, eyes fixated on the flames. Joslyn wondered whether the woman merely did not want to, but there was no time to question her. Nor did she think she would have if there was; Briette was too important to get off-side.

Gerrick and Mathane were looting behind the bar, while the others watched Joslyn for orders.

“Take their clothes,” she said. There was hesitation. She gestured with her axe. “Do it!”

Her Forsworn scrambled to pull the clothes from the bartender, hunter, and bard. Joslyn grabbed the leg of the Blade she had killed and dragged him outside. Swiftly she stripped him of his armour and found a sack to stuff it in. Singed badly, but it would serve. The others soon joined her with clothes rolled into tight balls. She added them to the sack and they looked at her expectantly. _A leader does not explain. A leader orders, and is obeyed._

“We’ve made our point,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.” _Before the smoke brings a horde of Blades to investigate._

* * *

 

After they’d headed south-west across the river and were back in the relative safety of the wilderness, Joslyn addressed her gang of killers. She eyed with satisfaction the smoke billowing up from Old Hroldan.

“Forsworn!” she announced. “This was but our first victory! With the army that awaits us at Hag Rock, our reign shall extend across all of the Reach. There is much work in the days ahead. But for now . . .”

She held out a hand towards Gerrick. He went to hand her a single bottle, but she took the whole sack. The big man only laughed and Joslyn breathed an internal sigh.

“For now,” she said, “I got some catching up to do.”


	6. Beastslayer

Plans and plots growing in her mind, Joslyn led her gang back to Hag Rock Redoubt. Emmard, the elite warrior she’d chosen to lead the cravens back, accosted her before she could enter the camp proper. There were archers on the walls, guarding the entrance. Forsworn bristling with blades and bones. Joslyn grinned. _The glory days are within reach!_

“There’s about forty now that you’re back,” Emmard said, leading her up the Redoubt. Mathane, Sabsa, and Gerrick soon vanished among the tents, seeking those they knew. Joslyn let them go. _It will do well for them to spread tales of my leadership among those who have not yet seen the future I offer._ Briette peeled off to join someone else’s fire. But Muriena stuck close.

“Borkul complains endlessly,” Emmard was saying. “But him and me have been training ’em.” The Redoubt thronged with movement. Everywhere Joslyn looked, figures in Forsworn armour moved about, eating, talking, and fighting.

“How’s his support?” asked Joslyn.

Emmard shrugged. “Strong enough. He’s got history. He served Madanach, fought the Dragonborn. Gets him respect.”

Joslyn snorted. “He ran away from the Dragonborn.” Her voice was loud enough to make several Forsworn look around. “There ain’t nothing he can offer that I can’t. And who is it that brought everyone here?”

“I know that,” said Emmard, glancing around as they walked. “But some of the others might take some convincing.”

 _But how long have I been away? A month, a little more. And look how the camp has changed, look how it lives!_ Emmard stomped off to find Mathane and Sabsa. Joslyn found Borkul standing with fists planted on hips, watching a few Forsworn that she recognised clacking swords in practice motions.

“Faster!” the big orc was saying. “You’re trying to kill ’em, not ask ’em nicely to lie down and be dead.”

He turned and saw Joslyn approach with Muriena behind.

“Took your damn time,” he said. “Can’t believe it took ya this long to round up these milk-drinkers.”

Joslyn set her teeth. “They’re Forsworn,” she said. “And I found a hell of a lot more of them that you did. We’re not sitting on our arses anymore. Change is here already.”

Borkul grunted. “We’ll see,” he said.

Joslyn spat and moved away.

“He won’t give up easy,” said Muriena as they headed further up the hill, onto the ruins. “You got any plans for him?”

“A couple,” said Joslyn. _Still trying to work out one that doesn’t end with him crushing my throat._

They came to Djanson, eyes still bloodshot, skinning a goat. His hands moved expertly and efficiently, very little blood falling onto the stones. It was not the skill Joslyn would have expected of a marked delusional, but the man’s face was furrowed, intently focussed on his work. His head snapped up as they approached.

“Hail, Djanson,” said Joslyn, priding herself on keeping apprehension out of her voice. “How’s Borkul been treating you?”

“I’ve heard about you,” said Djanson. “What you’ve been doing. Borkul just complains all the time.”

“Complaints aren’t going to win us any battles,” said Joslyn.

“No,” said Djanson. He stared at his hands in a way that might have been thoughtful. It was always hard to tell with him.

“Gerrick’s got drink, if you’re interested,” said Joslyn.

“No,” said Djanson. “My mind must remain pure.”

A misstep, but Joslyn recovered, nodding sagely. “Of course,” she said. “Clear for the war to come.”

Djanson met her eyes then. “You understand,” he said. “Borkul just laughs.”

“Borkul is not true Forsworn,” said Joslyn. She could see Djanson struggling with the dilemma, and she was about to interject further when Sabsa came up alongside.

“I was trying to tell some tale ’bout you,” the woman said, “but most of them seem to ’ave made it here ahead of me.”

 _And what has Borkul done lately that’s worthy of a tale?_ Joslyn acted as if the news was nothing other than what she’d expected.

“It’s not about the tales,” she said. “It’s about what we do to earn them.” She paused, sensing a momentary uncertainty in Sabsa’s expression. “And about how many Nords we kill along the way,” she added.

Sabsa grinned and Joslyn allowed herself a silent sigh. A deep yell came from further down in the camp. _Borkul._

“Joslyn!” came his voice. “Get down here! And the rest of you maggots!”

 _No, not now, I’m not ready._ She turned to Muriena. “Have you got a knife I can borrow?” she asked.

Muriena frowned, but passed over a simple steel blade. Joslyn crouched out of sight and secured it in her left boot. Then she trod the distance towards the Beast. She’d expected the challenge to come, but not so soon, not when she’d barely rested her feet. Still, weeks living rough had brought her old wiry strength back to the fore. She rolled her shoulders as she approached Borkul. She stood a few paces away from him and did not take her eyes from him as the rest of the Forsworn gathered in a loose circle around them. _Too many eyes._

Borkul waited for silence before he spoke again. Joslyn could see the coming violence in his every movement.

“What’s this I hear about you callin’ me a coward?” he said.

“So what if I am?” demanded Joslyn. She let her hand drop casually towards her axe. Borkul had a matching weapon at his own belt; no advantage to be found there.

“I’m in charge here, not you,” he said. He took a half-step towards her, then undid the movement. “And I won’t be called a coward by any under my command.”

“Maybe some of us are tired of your command,” said Joslyn in a low voice.

Borkul laughed, though none of the crowd were smiling. “This what I think it is?” he asked. “You ain’t got the support to lead, and you ain’t got the strength to take me down.”

Joslyn smiled. She raised her voice so all could hear. “And who was it who brought the Forsworn out from the dark corners of the Reach? Who was it who formed them into an army once more?” She singled out Briette from the crowd. “Who was it who returned the last remaining Briarheart to our cause?”

There were murmurs from the crowd which Borkul attempted to cut across.

“And that all ain’t shit if you don’t have the strength to lead,” he said through gritted teeth. _Get angry, Borkul. You’ll be so much easier to kill._

“I have more than strength,” said Joslyn. “Already I have led Forsworn to victories your feeble intelligence could never have dreamed up. More than that, I have the blessing of the hagravens.”

That got his attention. “The hagravens are all dead,” said Borkul.

Joslyn was about to deny it when Gerrick’s shout cut across her. “I saw ’em! And they named her leader!”

The murmurs among the crowd grew louder. “What would you do with my army, Borkul?” asked Joslyn. “Be content raiding merchants, killing bandits? You don’t want to be Forsworn, you just want blades at your back. Under you we’d be nothing more than bandits ourselves.”

Borkul’s face was rent with rage and Joslyn knew she would only have the tiniest of windows to react when things came to their flashpoint. She spoke on.

“You were never Madanach’s right-hand man. You were a bodyguard, glorified muscle, nothing else. You cannot lead us because you cannot dream. And when the Dragonborn came, what did you do? How did you survive?”

But Borkul had no time to answer, for a low growl came from the crowd behind him and Djanson pushed his way to the front.

“You _lied_ to me,” he said. Borkul did not turn. Djanson pulled the knife he’d been skinning goats with, took three steps forward, and buried it in Borkul’s upper left back. Borkul turned then, and swung his fist at the side of Djanson’s head, knocking him to the ground. Borkul drew his axe and hacked into Djanson’s neck. The man screamed and spasmed as he died. The axe became caught on some piece of flesh and when Borkul cursed loud and pulled, the handle snapped.

There was silence in the crowd. _Thank you, Djanson. Every cut is one I don’t have to make._ Joslyn took a half-step forward and drew her own axe, levelling it at the Beast.

“A leader does not butcher their own followers. Was he about to expose you?” she asked. “Reveal that you ran, that you hid. That you have a craven heart.”

Borkul roared and rushed at her. Too angry to find another weapon. Perhaps years of bare-knuckle fighting in Cidhna Mine had sunk into his brain. Perhaps he intended to tear Joslyn apart with his hands. Whichever it was, she pivoted out of his way and swung her axe into his right shoulder. It tore from her hand as he went down, protruding from him.

Joslyn stepped away and drew her sword. Not her preferred weapon, but it would do.

“You would let this fool lead you?” she asked the crowd. _Not enough time, not enough time._ “This fool who would rather see you bleeding than reigning supreme over the Reach?”

Borkul rose and yanked out the axe. No sound escaped his mouth, only an unpleasant squelch as the serrated blades left his flesh. He rushed at her again, but her words had already had their effect. Other blades came at him, slashes and blows raining down on him as the Forsworn, Joslyn’s Forsworn, attempted to surround him, to make him vanish under their assault. She saw Mathane cutting at a leg, she saw Sabsa rending at a spine.

Bleeding from two dozen wounds, Borkul roared and pushed through towards Joslyn. She turned aside his weapon with her own, but could not stand against his momentum. She was thrust backwards through a press of bodies. Figures slammed at her, drawn weapons cut at her. There was a thump and she felt herself slumped against a pillar of stone. _He will not use my own as a weapon against me. These are my people, this is my Reach._

Joslyn looked up to see Borkul thundering down on her. She slid to the side, her movements sluggish against her wounds, but succeeded in turning away his axe. The next blow came from above his head and was of such force that it shattered both their weapons on impact.

She saw Gerrick slam his mace against Borkul’s lower leg. The Beast dribbled blood but punched Joslyn in the face. She ricocheted back against the stone again and was only barely aware of hitting the ground. She felt rather than saw his knee pin her torso. But she regained enough sight to see his hands reaching for her throat.

Once she felt that grip, Joslyn knew she had only seconds to act. Attempting to break his hold would be futile. She was fuzzily aware of figures pulling, hacking at Borkul, trying to shift him. She saw Gerrick raise his mace for a strike at Borkul’s head. _Nobody takes my killings away from me._

Joslyn lifted her left knee up, her throat beginning to constrict, and drew Muriena’s knife from her boot. Then she drove half its length through Borkul’s right eye. He let out an impossible roar and she held her grip. She drove it further, into his brain. The roar ceased and the giant orc collapsed, half on top of her.

His blood streaked across her face, Joslyn quickly levered the body off her before anyone could come to her aid. Her breathing ragged, pain still lancing through her back and head, she surveyed the crowd. Her crowd.

“Anyone feel like joining him?” she managed to say. There was silence and she hawked thick blood. _Just breathe._ She indicated the corpse. “Then toss this somewhere the wolves will chew on it. Tomorrow, we move out. We have a Dragonborn to kill.”


	7. To Kill a Legend

Once again, Muriena tended to Joslyn’s wounds. A single lantern lit the tent that evening, and the sounds of movement and voices outside reduced to almost nothing. There was always activity in Hag Rock, but it seemed to have reached its lowest point. Joslyn found her vision was no longer hazy and that she was able to sit up. Muriena crouched at her side, mixing ingredients.

“Thank you,” Joslyn murmured. There was a pause.

“You’re an idiot,” said Muriena. “He almost had you half a dozen times.”

Joslyn tried to shrug and then found herself trying not to wince at the pain the attempted action caused. In truth, she had almost been killed far more than half a dozen times. Luck had saved her at countless moments in the fight, but it was her skill and her wiles that had truly seen her through. That had seen to the others coming to her aid when otherwise she would have been lying there in torn pieces. _All that matters is that Borkul’s rotting and I ain’t._

“Sorry I got Borkul-brains all over your knife,” said Joslyn.

Muriena snorted and said, “Keep it, then. If you’re gonna be pulling stunts like that again, you’ll need it.”

Joslyn sat straighter and shook her head. “Next time,” she said, “I’ll have an army at my back.”

“The Dragonborn?” asked Muriena. Joslyn nodded. Muriena applied a poultice to Joslyn’s ribs and looked uncertain for a few moments. “What happened in the mine with her?” she asked.

A deep frown sunk across Joslyn’s face and she fought against the memories. _Forget her sneering satisfied smile, forget her quick hands and—_ “She betrayed us. She pretended to be one of us, and she betrayed us.”

“And she left you behind.” A directness now to Muriena’s words. She looked Joslyn in the eyes and waited for a truth.

Joslyn thought of spitting and decided against it. _How much truth do I need here? How bare to I need to lay myself?_ She remembered that final night. Madanach announcing the escape was imminent. The subdued preparations to fool the guards. The gradual departure through the gate. The Dragonborn and Joslyn lingering at the final hurdle. Pushing Joslyn against the rock wall with that smile. _Something to remember the place by_ , she’d said. And Joslyn had responded as she had so many times before. The Dragonborn’s hand had come up, toying around Joslyn’s neck, running through her hair. And slammed her head into the wall. And left her there, bleeding and slow for when the guards came.

“Picking us off early,” said Joslyn, trying not to swallow. _I have a dozen lies for this. Just a matter of picking the right one._

“But you survived,” said Muriena. She was frowning now.

“Takes more’n a Dragonborn to kill me.” She tried for a grin here, and got an internal surge when it took on Muriena’s face.

“After today, I can almost believe it.”

Muriena leaned in and her lips met Joslyn’s.

“Wait,” said Joslyn, pulling away. “Almost?”

Muriena let out a quiet laugh and pushed Joslyn onto her back. Joslyn did not have time to think about supressing a yelp of pain before Muriena was on her. _Forget the mine. Forget her. There is only now, and Muriena._ Joslyn closed her eyes and tried to lose herself in the storm of sensations.

* * *

 

“What did you make us take those clothes for?” asked Muriena in the morning, sprawled across Joslyn’s body.

Joslyn found her grin came naturally. “Soon,” she said.

Within the hour she was addressing her new army. Armed and bedecked like the savage warriors they were. _Soon they will be splattered with the blood of our greatest foe._

“Most of you will be heading to Druadach Redoubt,” she was saying. “In small groups—we don’t want anyone getting wind of this. The hagravens should be there already. I need a small group inside, eight or nine. The rest of you, camp to the west, out of sight. No fires, no drinking. Surprise attacks don’t work if they see you coming.”

To Joslyn’s great satisfaction, nobody else spoke. Watching and waiting for her next order.

“And I need three with me,” she said. “We’ll need to draw the Dragonborn there.”

Before leaving Muriena’s tent, she had scribbled a note, deliberately messy. It instructed the bearer to return to Druadach Redoubt once their business in Whiterun was done. She had then slipped it into the pocket of one of the stolen outfits.

Several she had travelled with looked about to volunteer, so she cut them off. She pointed out three she did not know the names of. _Three whose deaths I can live with._

“You three with me. Emmard has command of the rest of you. Move fast and move quiet.”

* * *

 

They headed east in stolen garb. Joslyn had slipped into the Blades armour. Badly blackened by fire and missing its matching sword, but it would do. The others were dressed as the bard, bartender, and woodchopper from Old Hroldan. The woodchopper’s tunic had two holes in the back and the bartender’s a dark stain across the front, but otherwise, Joslyn thought they passed well enough. A night and most of a day later, they were in sight of Whiterun.

“Here’s the story,” she said. “You three were travellers attacked by a dragon, I was the only survivor of the Blades that came to help you. Understood?”

They nodded. She’d done her utmost to not learn their names or anything about them as they journeyed. Now, heading up the path towards the city as evening drew in, Joslyn attempted to remove them from her mind completely. She wondered if the guards at the gate wore sympathetic looks under their helmets.

“You lot look like you’ve been through a few hells,” said one of them.

“Aye,” said Joslyn, trying to sound as Nordic as possible. “Dragon attack. Killed the rest of my squad.”

“My sympathies,” said the guard. “Healer’s up to the left as you go in. Or if it’s revenge you’re after, the Dragonborn’ll be around soon.”

Joslyn tried not to show interest. _Just another citizen of Skyrim with a healthy interest in the legend._ “I heard she had a house here,” she said, straining for a casual tone.

“Second place on the right,” said the guard. “Past the forge. Can’t miss it. She had to pop up to Solitude, but she’s due back tonight.”

Joslyn forced a nod and a smile. “My thanks,” she said, and led her infiltrators into the Dragonborn’s city.

* * *

 

She sent them in through a window around the side, after checking there was nobody in sight. She lingered nervously for a moment before one of the three’s faces appeared at the broken window.

“Empty,” they said.

“Then hide yourselves,” she said. “And wait. I’ll keep a lookout.”

The face nodded and vanished from the frame. Joslyn slipped across the main path and found a dark corner to crouch in, alongside the building opposite the Dragonborn’s house. Leaning back against the rough wood, she waited.

What she hadn’t told the three inside was the simple truth known to all those who had encountered the Dragonborn: three attackers, on familiar ground, stood no chance whatsoever against the woman who had slain Alduin. The massacre would be short and bloody, of that Joslyn had no doubt. _The hard part will be not leaping from the shadows to kill her myself._

But there was a trap waiting. The note planted in the stolen clothes would lead the Dragonborn to Druadach Redoubt, where her forces would be gathering even now. _Three lives is a small price to pay to see her bleeding out in the dirt of the Reach._

Night had truly settled in before Joslyn’s labours bore fruit. She shrank from passing guards and their torches, but was not seen. Then the great gates opened and a woman in ebony armour entered, a helmet tucked under her arm. Joslyn felt a chill seep through her bones. _Here at last_. She held herself tight and let out a slow silent breath. If she was seen, all would be lost—and her disguise would not fool the Dragonborn for an instant.

Her dark brown hair had lengthened, Joslyn noticed—but of course it had, and she cursed herself for noticing such pathetic things. She watched the woman stomping up the path and wished for the moment when her sword would rend the Dragonborn’s flesh. She watched as the door to the house was opened and closed.

Every piece of the plan was now in place. Joslyn darted from her hiding place and hoped to be out of the city before the first dead Forsworn hit the floor. Westward bound, now. To Druadach Redoubt, where it would all end.


	8. The Battle of Druadach Redoubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6, of the same name, in _Outcasts and Outlands_ , provides a different perspective on the events in this chapter.

Joslyn ran most of the distance back to the Reach, two moons watching her every jagged step. Somewhere west of Rorikstead she collapsed into unconsciousness and dreamed of the dead. Come the dawn, she was on the move again. _Everything must be in place. Everything must go as planned._

When she knew Druadach Redoubt was over the next hill, she halted and tried to steady her breathing. It would not do to enter her camp looking as though she’d run half the width of Skyrim in sheer terror. It was a struggle, but she closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands, and when she looked up, she could believe she was fine. She tossed the Blades armour into the river as she crossed. Underneath were her true colours, Forsworn colours.

The camp was where she’d ordered it to be. No fires, no noises. Looking from the north or east, the Redoubt seemed as uninhabited as ever. But just around the ridge to the west was her army. Camped tightly together, eating cold meals, murmuring hushed words. Silence fell as Joslyn’s entrance was noted. She waved Emmard over and smiled at Muriena.

“Everything’s ready?” asked Joslyn.

Emmard nodded. “There’s some inside, like you said. Hagravens are making new Briarhearts in there, too.”

Joslyn felt a flush of fear. Every piece of firepower against the Dragonborn would be helpful, but Briarhearts were too powerful, too hard to control. After this job was done, she would have to keep them in check. _A problem for another day. A day when our scourge is lifted._

“The others aren’t with you?” asked Emmard.

“No.” There was hesitation on Emmard’s face, so Joslyn added, “They’ll back soon enough. All part of the plan.”

She thought her tone was too jaunty, and indeed Emmard did not look convinced, but he said nothing. That was good enough for Joslyn.

“Get the hagravens out of the cave,” she said. “I want them to be part of the surprise when the Dragonborn gets here.”

Emmard nodded and moved off in the direction she’d ordered. She noticed most of her army was looking at her.

“Keep your weapons ready,” she announced. “And be ready to move at my order.”

She felt her words rushing out, felt herself losing interest in this moment. She felt her feet carry her towards Muriena.

* * *

 

The Dragonborn arrived that night. Joslyn crouched behind the rocks and watched the torch bob across the river, watched the wood being arranged and the fire spark. Watched the shadowed figure sit and eat. She watched long after her sentries had changed and changed again. But still the Dragonborn did not enter the Redoubt.

“Perhaps she’s waiting for someone?” ventured Gerrick.

Joslyn sneered. “She has no allies, not with her traitor’s blood.”

But a day and half later, when her troops were growing wearisome and she was wondering how much food those inside the cave had, her words were proved wrong. Two figures joined the Dragonborn at her camp in the early hours of the dawn: a Khajiit and an Altmer. Joslyn strained to hear the conversation but could discern nothing. It was clear enough that they were allies, however. And they appeared almost as formidable as the Dragonborn.

“This part of the plan too?” hissed Emmard from further behind the rock where they lay hidden. Joslyn glared at him.

“We are Forsworn,” she said. “We can take two of her craven whelps.” _Unless she attracts her own kind. The formidable. The unpredictable. The indestructible._

The now-three outside the Redoubt sat and ate. Joslyn watched the easy way their limbs moved, the smooth way their mouths formed words. By the time they stood and moved towards the cave, she was audibly seething. The Khajiit fitted an arrow to her bow and pulled off a shot that Joslyn would have thought impossible: across the river, through the spiked barriers, and into the throat of the Forsworn sentry.

Joslyn looked at those behind her in their hiding place. None had seen. _Better they not know what we’re up against. Who are these people?_ When she looked up again the three figures were vanishing into the Redoubt itself. She signalled her followers. Noise now, but no matter. She drew her sword and led them over the rocks to the open area around the cave. In short orders, Emmard ordered them into a loose half-circle. Then, they waited.

They numbered almost thirty. Two hagravens, two Briarhearts (one new, a third inside), numerous warriors and archers all ready for the moment their hated foe would emerge and find herself up against impossible odds.

* * *

 

Still the Forsworn waited. There, after so much preparation, so many years, such waiting seemed interminable to Joslyn. She found it difficult to restrain her movements. _Soon,_ she calmed herself. _Soon it will all be at an end._

Joslyn was close to the river, at the rear of the force when, suddenly, she appeared. The figure of the Dragonborn, in bloodied ebony armour, at the cave entrance. _Yes. Yes!_ Joslyn spread her arms wide.

“Do you see my army, Dragonborn?” she called out. “This is your end! I will watch you bleed out alone and the Forsworn will once again rule the Reach.”

The Dragonborn, too, spread her arms. “Oh, but I’m never alone,” she said.

Joslyn expected the Khajiit and the Altmer to appear, but instead the Dragonborn Shouted into the sky. The Forsworn flinched. Tales abounded of frost, fire, and wind emerging with that voice. But nothing happened. The sound echoed off the rocks of the Reach and Joslyn laughed. She signalled her archers and Briarhearts. The Khajiit and the Altmer appeared now. _All the better._

“Leave nothing of her!” yelled Joslyn. It was at that moment that an immense red dragon landed in the middle of the Forsworn forces, crushing several—including Emmard—under its scaly hide and bowling half a dozen away with a sweep of its tail. More importantly, it blocked Joslyn’s way to her vengeance. The Shout had had an effect after all.

The Dragonborn leapt from the cave path into the melee. Joslyn could see the Khajiit and the Altmer treading down the path, launching arrows and lightning bolts respectively, into her people. She gestured frantically at Sabsa.

“Get those!” she spat. One of the hagravens joined the small group that splintered off. Arrows were loosed at dragon and Dragonborn, but few seemed to have effect. Joslyn saw Briette preparing a huge fireball, but more ancient words came, this time from the dragon’s throat. Flame streamed forth from his throat. Briette and at least five others were incinerated.

Others were fleeing the destruction. _Cowards, all of them. In the Forsworn’s hour of need they desert us!_ None got far; the arrows of the Khajiit were many and quick. Most of her army was routed. The Dragonborn was cutting towards her with ferocious speed. Joslyn took a step back and found the river barring her passage. Only Gerrick and Muriena remained by her side. _Still hope, still hope. Even among this failure and treachery._

The dragon crunched a Forsworn between its jaws. As the screams died, Joslyn identified the figure as Mathane. When she looked forward again, the Dragonborn was upon them. Gerrick leapt and was cut down, their foe’s pace never slowing. Muriena’s axe was turned aside and her blood splattered across the dirt. A huge dwarven axe was clasped in the Dragonborn’s gauntleted fist and Joslyn saw it cut through Muriena’s flesh and bone with equal ease.

 _No, no!_ That body she had lain so close to, so merged with, fell broken and empty. The Dragonborn hesitated. Joslyn gripped her sword and felt the bones in her knuckles straining against the skin. _Still time to make this right. Still a future, still a death._

She moved and knew she came in fast. But her sword shattered on the Dragonborn’s shield. The impact sent her rebounding backwards. _Still time._ Joslyn went for her knife, Muriena’s knife. But she saw the axe coming for her neck. There was a moment, a fraction of a heartbeat, where Joslyn could fall into an abyss of pain. Physical pain, to match the pain of failure and absence ratcheting around her soul. Then, the moment was ended. Then, there was nothing.

Joslyn’s head rolled a few paces before settling. Its swift blood soaked deep into the soil of the Reach. There was a gap, a decisive silence that settled over the Redoubt. Then the Dragonborn kicked Joslyn’s corpse into the river and turned back to her allies. The body of the last Forsworn snagged on a rock, denied its slow journey towards the sea.


End file.
